“What do you mean?”
“Like a theater whose show is finished for the night. It’s hard to explain, but it’s almost as if once you were gone, or once we weren’t there together, there was no need to keep up the whole shebang. And a few seconds later, I heard a woman crying inside the tunnel.”
Ling breathed in sharply. “You didn’t go in, did you?”
“A woman was crying, Ling! Despite my misgivings about my parents, they did raise me with proper manners. I can’t ignore a damsel in distress.”
“No. I suppose you can’t. What happened next?”
“The dark glowed with greenish light. I heard that growling again, and then—I can’t swear to this—I thought I saw someone moving inside.”
“Her?”
“Possibly. And then my alarm woke me.”
“Wai-Mae mentioned that there was a bad death,” Ling said. “Every night when we see that woman run past us, she’s clearly in distress. And there’s the blood on her dress.”
“Yes. Bloody clothing is often a clue that something has gone awry,” Henry said. “But why would our mystery woman have anything to do with this sleeping sickness, if you truly think that’s the case?”
“I don’t know. I’m working from a theory. It might not be the correct one. I can’t help but think that George wants me to know something about her, that he’s trying to lead me to clues.”
Henry clamped his hands under his armpits to fight the cold. “Right now, the only clues we have lie in that dreamscape. We’ll have to piece it together from that, I suppose.”
“Agreed. So,” Ling said, counting off on her fingers, “there’s the Beach Pneumatic Transit Company. The fireworks. Someone named Anthony Orange Cross. Devlin’s Clothing Store.”
“Haunted trousers. It always comes back to the haunted trousers.”
Ling gave Henry a withering glare.
Henry nodded. “Fair enough. No haunted trousers.”
A gray storm cloud drifted over the top of City Hall for a moment, obscuring its cupola. Ling watched the cloud dissipate, transforming into a less ominous version of itself. “‘Murder! Murder! Oh, murder,’” Ling murmured. “Maybe the veiled woman was murdered, and she… needs us to find her killer so she can rest?”
“I’ll bet it was the wagon driver—‘Argh, Miss, ’tis the horses that drove me to murder!’ Get it? Drove me to murder? Thanks, folks. Two shows daily!” Henry wiggled his fingers, then dropped them again. “Sorry. What if this Anthony Orange Cross was the killer?”
“And he chased her and killed her in Paradise Square—‘Beware, beware, Paradise Square!’” Ling added.
“Wait a minute!” Henry sat up very straight. “Adelaide Proctor!”
“If this is another joke, I’ll skin you alive.”
“There’s an old woman who lives in my building, Miss Adelaide Proctor. Likes to wander the halls in her nightgown and season the carpets with salt and talk about murder and mayhem and other unsavory spooky things. She’s a bit… odd.”
“You mean crazy,” Ling said.
“I’d say eccentric.”
“That’s a nice way of saying crazy.”
“As I was saying, the other day, she looked right at me as I was getting on the elevator and said, ‘Anthony Orange Cross. Beware, beware, Paradise Square.’”
Ling threw her hands up in exasperation. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“It didn’t come up in conversation! Besides, I’m in the theater, darlin’. I meet an awful lot of strange people. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“How did she know that exact phrase?” Ling pressed. “Is she a dream walker, too?”
“Not that I know of. At least, I’ve never seen her wandering the dreamscape on her broomstick. She asked me if I could hear the crying.” He paused, his eyes on Ling. “You’re making that frowning face again. Not the usual Ling-Chan-contempt-for-most-of-humanity expression, but something more akin to dread.”
“I don’t like this, Henry,” Ling said. “Something isn’t right. Can you speak to the crazy lady and ask her what she knows?”
“Yes, for the sake of our mystery, I will endure an afternoon with the mad Proctor sisters,” Henry said.
A distant clock tolled five. Ling gasped.
“Now you’re really starting to scare me,” Henry said. “What’s the matter?”
